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Guerrillas by
Night

What a piece
of work is a man!

A thriller

by

Paul Casselle

Companion novella to the ‘Bedfellows’
series

Written & compiled with Scrivener

First published on 28th
April 2017

(Version 101 – Digital edition)

ISBN: 9781370202294

The Bit in the Middle Publishing

Disclaimer

This book contains passages of a highly graphic nature
and strong language that may offend some readers. All characters and
events in this work are fictional. Any resemblance to real people,
dead or alive, is coincidental.

Copyright

No part of this book may be reproduced or distributed,
via any medium, without the written permission of the author.

TILDA BROOKER WALKED across the sand-strewn parking lot
towards a windowless concrete building. It was only a little past ten
in the morning, but the blazing sun, even from its low angle in the
sky, stung every exposed part of her body.

She pressed a button situated next to a grey steel door
and waited. Tilda removed her sunglasses and caressed her eyes with
the finger and thumb of her right hand. She turned her head and
looked back at the parking lot from which she had just come; her eyes
involuntarily narrowing to tight slits against the blinding New
Mexican light. A metallic noise came from behind her. She spun around
to face the steel door simultaneously replacing her sunglasses. A
soldier peered impassively from the relative darkness inside the
building. Tilda felt for the pass that hung from her neck and held it
up for inspection without looking at it herself.

“Ma’am,” responded the soldier and
stepped to one side.

Tilda was swallowed into the ominous gloom of the
concrete structure. The soldier immediately reset the facility’s
security by swinging the solid door closed.

She made her way down echoey corridors that reached deep
into the secret CIA labyrinth then turned a sharp left and stopped at
a door identified simply with a printed card secured to the wall
adjacent to the door. The card read;

Project Roaring Lion

Authorised Personnel ONLY

Lifting her security pass on its chain, she swiped it
through a card reader mounted on the doorframe. It beeped, and the
latch clicked open. Tilda pushed the door with her right hand, and at
the same time lifted her left to glance at her watch. ‘Shit!’
she mumbled increasing her pace and heading towards one of the arrays
of unmarked doors ahead of her.

She entered the room. A man in his early thirties was
seated at a bank of video screens. He was dressed in blue jeans, a
T-shirt sporting the slogan, ‘Weed’s the Way’ and a
faded, unbuttoned yellow shirt. He looked up.

“So the British contingent finally arrive!”

“Fuck you, Doyle,” Tilda countered. “Is
the coffee fresh?”

“It was ten minutes ago, when your shift started.”

Doyle stood up and belched. Tilda poured herself a
coffee and spoke without turning.

“Don’t you think this rebel without applause
routine is getting a little old?”

“You mean my impish charm?” Doyle replied.

Tilda turned to him and sipped her drink.

“No, I mean that you’re a CIA agent with a
serious job on a top secret government project yet you insist on
dressing like you’re sixteen and behaving like a mental
retard.”

Doyle stared at her and raised an eyebrow.

“I did warn you, Tilda,” he said slowly.
“This vow of celibacy would come to no good. You’re just
no fun anymore!”

Tilda pushed Doyle out of her way as she moved from the
coffee machine to scan the array of screens. She sat down.

“Anyway,” continued Doyle, “in a few
weeks time this will all be history for you.”

Tilda absentmindedly placed a hand over her mouth and
sighed.

“What’s he up to?” she asked.

“Ten past ten AM,” said Doyle, “coffee
and donuts. He’s in Amerikah
now. No more beetroot soup for him.”

Tilda studied the older man on the screen. He sat at a
desk methodically consuming a Krispy Kreme doughnut and sipping
occasionally from a mug decorated with the Stars and Stripes.

“Don’t you have things to do, Doyle?”
Tilda said shuffling some papers on the desk under the screens.
“Don’t you need to play on your PlayStation or
something?” She turned to Doyle. “Isn’t that what
teenagers spend their spare time doing?”

“Is that what they call British humour?”
said Doyle.

Tilda turned in her seat.

“What do you know about him?” Tilda pointed
at the screens behind her. “What do you know about Tzivin?”

“Michail Tzivin. Born nineteen forty-nine. Studied
at the Moscow Academy of Physical Sciences. Joined the R & D
department of the Russian army in nineteen seventy-two. Defected to
the US in August two thousand and thirteen.” Doyle smiled. “Not
bad for a teenager, eh?”

“But what’s he working on?” insisted
Tilda. She gestured to the facility in which she sat. “What
does he have that’s this important?”

“Well that’s easy,” said Doyle. Tilda
stared at him and narrowed her eyes. “It’s always the
same thing. The ability to blow your enemy’s ass to kingdom
come.”

“But…” Tilda protested.

She was interrupted by an ear piercing alarm. Doyle
reacted immediately by rushing over to the seat next to his British
counterpart.

“Where’s the breach?” Doyle demanded,
his demeanour now every inch a CIA agent.

Tilda scanned the screens and banks of LED warning
lights in front of her.

“Sector sixteen,” she replied.

“Fuck,” exclaimed Doyle, “that’s
within the lab’s perimeter.”

“It could be a false alarm,” offered Tilda.

“This is not the time for a stiff upper lip, my
girl.” The CIA agent stood up and pulled his Beretta from the
holster on his belt. “Showtime sweetheart!”

Tilda glanced at the screens one last time to see Tzivin
standing in a panic. His mug had overturned spilling steaming coffee
over the papers on his desk. She looked up. Doyle had opened the door
which had increased the deafening siren to an unbearable volume.

“Now,” shouted Doyle, “we gotta go
now!”

Tilda leapt to her feet pulling her pistol from her
waist.

▽

▼

▽

Chapter 2

As Doyle and Tilda reached Sector sixteen, they could
see two suited agents ahead of them. Doyle increased his speed and
caught up with the other two men as they flung the door to Tzivin’s
lab open. The two suits, preceded by their sidearms, broke left and
right and combed the room. Doyle made a bee-line for the scientist
and man-handled him to the floor. Tzivin fought him off weakly.

“Schto tackoya!”
the terrified Russian screamed into the agent’s face.

“Was anyone in here?” asked Doyle tensely.
“Please Sir, I need to know. Is there anyone else in here?”

Tilda arrived at the doorway holding her gun in front of
her in a two handed grip. She moved slowly towards Doyle and Tzivin.

Doyle stood and looked absently around the room. He
nodded to the two suits as they made their way back to the door and
disappeared to whatever ready position they had come from. He
re-holstered his gun.

Tilda immediately started to separate the sodden pages
and laid them carefully along the desk.

“They’re fine, Mr Tzivin,” reassure
Tilda. She paused and held up the last page. “What are you
working on? Looks very interesting.”

Doyle caught her arm and guided her hand and the page
back to the desk.

“Are you kidding me, Tilda?”

“What’s the harm in asking?” she said
defensively.

“No harm in asking, but a shit-load of trouble if
you get an answer.” Doyle turned to Tzivin. “We’ll
leave you now, Sir.”

“Spaceebah,”
responded Tzivin, “you’re both very kind.”

“Just doing our job, Sir,” Doyle said as he
guided Tilda out of the laboratory.

The two agents walked down the corridor en
route to the briefing room.

“Don’t you ever get curious?” asked
Tilda.

“Killed the cat,” said Doyle, “at
least that’s what they told me as a kid.”

“You were also told that a fairy comes in the
night for your tooth and that there’s a big invisible man in
the sky that looks over you. You don’t still believe that, do
you? Oh no, hang on, you’re an American, so you probably do
still believe in that man in the sky stuff.”

“There’s nothing childish about religion,”
countered Doyle.

Tilda stopped and held Doyle’s arm strongly
forcing him to stop and face her.

“Seriously, Doyle?” she studied his face. He
looked her in the eye. “Really, you’re religious?”

“I’m not a Christian or anything, but I do
believe in God.”

Tilda shook her head.

“Even after everything you’ve seen. I mean
everything. All the horrible shit we see going down year after
year…You still believe in a benevolent god?”

“Yes, Tilda I do…sue me!”

Doyle pulled his arm free and continued walking. Tilda
moved off and caught him up.

“I would if I could, but I’m too busy
clearing up all the mess created by jihadi
terrorists. Hey, don’t they believe in god as well?”

“Don’t be so naïve, Tilda,”
countered Doyle. “There are people that believe in absolute
good and those that are only interested in being right.”

“And you’re the type that selflessly
believes in good, are you?”

“No, I don’t get it right all the time, but
yes I do believe in absolute good. It’s just that we humans are
frail…easily led into temptation.”

“So…” Tilda began, but Doyle cut her
off.

“Tilda, sweetheart, we gotta get to a de-briefing,
then I gotta get home and get some shut-eye. I’m really not up
to a theological debate right now.”

“No, come on,” insisted Tilda, “don’t
bail on me.”

Doyle stopped and turned to her.

“What do I need to tell you for you to stop
breaking my balls?”

“If god is all good and we are made in his image,
what the hell is tempting us to do wrong?” Tilda said cocking
her head to one side churlishly.

“Evil, Tilda. Evil,” Doyle stated simply,
then turned and walked the last few steps to the briefing room door.

“No, hang on. If god made everything, then he must
also be responsible for evil.”

“Well, you see God did make everything. He made
everything including the tools we use to work things out. But
sometimes we misuse those tools. And that ain’t the tools
fault, is it? Or the fault of the tool-maker. It’s the jerk
that’s not using it properly. We need to realise that evil is
us getting it wrong; using the perfect divine tools wrong. And you
know what a bad workman does, don’t you?”

“Blames his tools?” concluded Tilda. “Very
clever.”

Doyle put his hand on the briefing room door handle.

“One last thing,” said Tilda.

Doyle turned and sighed.

“What?”

“Do you know what ‘EMP’ is?”

Doyle shook his head.

“Err, no. What’s ‘EMP’?”

“I don’t know,” said Tilda, “but
it was written all over Tzivin’s paperwork.”

▽

▼

▽

Chapter 3

Thurs. 12th
Sept. - One day earlier-London,
UK

“He’ll see you now,” a suited flunky
said solemnly to a pretty young blonde woman.

She got up from a bent-wood chair and headed towards a
door that the flunky held open for her. A distinguished man in his
early thirties sat at a large expensive desk wearing an equally
expensive suit.

“He keeps a personal mobile phone in a locked
drawer in his desk,” said the young woman. “I’m
sure he uses it to communicate secretly.”

“With the MI6 agent?” interjected Anders.

“Precisely, Sir.”

“…Anders.”

“Sorry, Sir…Anders.”

“And do you think they are working with others?”

“I’m not sure,” she said shaking her
head gently. “I want to get my hands on that mobile.”

“And how do you intend to do that, if he keeps it
in a locked drawer?”

“Well,” responded the young woman, “I
think he’s got a soft spot for me. I’m weighing up
whether seduction may be the quickest way to open up both him and the
drawer.”

Anders studied the woman in front of him.

“I like you, you know?” he said. “Father
was unsure about getting into bed with you,” he smiled, “sorry,
that wasn’t supposed to be a pun…but I think…”
he trailed off.

“…What, Sir…Anders.”

Anders got up from behind his desk and walked to the
window. He turned.

“May I be frank?” he asked.

“Of course…Anders.”

“Well, the thing is…I don’t trust
you.”

The woman moved uncomfortably in her chair.

“I don’t know what to say to that.”

Anders returned his eyes to the window and spoke without
looking at his guest.

“Give me something that will dispel my…doubt,”
said Anders.

“I’ll…I’ll do my best.”

“My father used to say that it’s better to
deal with an evil person than a fool. You can understand an evil
person’s motives, but a fool…” Anders spun slowly
on his feet to face the woman. A graceful turn that was almost a
dance move. “Which are you, my dear? Are you evil or a fool?”

“I don’t think I’m either,” she
defended confidently. “I’m a pragmatist. I committed many
years ago to doing what works rather than feeling the necessity to do
what’s right. I have no idea what’s right, so at least I
can be efficient.”

“A pragmatist, eh?” echoed Anders. “What
about commitment to a cause, an ideal, a philosophy? What do you care
about?”

“What do you
care about, Sir?”

“Anders,” he corrected. “I care about
my family. It’s taken nearly three hundred years to get to the
top. I care about staying there.” He moved to bring his face
uncomfortably near to the woman’s. “And I will destroy
anyone that threatens that. Do you understand me, my dear, anyone.”

“I understand you.”

Anders straightened up.

“Is there anything else?” he asked.

“No,” the woman answered quietly.

Anders pressed a button on his desk, and within a few
seconds the door opened. The flunky stood in the doorway.

“Mr Kendrick Mattherson’s here, Sir,”
said the flunky.

Anders nodded.

“See you next week, then,” he said to the
woman, tersely.

“Until next week,” the woman said rising and
making for the door.

Anders returned to his desk.

“By the way,” he said while studying some
papers and not looking up.

The woman stopped on the threshold to the room and
turned back to Anders. Her expression was determinedly neutral.

Anders raised his eyes to study her.

“Do you know what EMP is?”

She shook her head slowly and pursed her lips.

“No,” she replied, “should I?”

Anders smiled.

“Next week, then,” he said.

▽

▼

▽

Chapter 4

Fri. 13th
Sept. 2013 - New Mexico, USA

Night had fallen suddenly, and Tilda made her way to her
car in the dim, cold glare of a single light mounted on the CIA
facility. Apart from the excitement of the false alarm nothing much
had happened during her watch.

She unlocked and got into her car. A smile twisted her
mouth as she realised that for the first time she had gone directly
to the left side of the vehicle with no hesitation at all. Her
subconscious had finally accepted that regardless of how much
judgement it threw at countries with left-hand drive cars, the
steering wheel would remain in that ungodly position.

The craziness of driving cars on the right was not the
only thing that troubled her about this country, but it was America’s
fanatical nationalism that irked her the most. An unwavering belief
in ‘My country right or wrong’. Where does the first
amendment fit into such intransigence? Tilda had always refused to
believe in anything with such unerring passion. In fact, she
passionately avoided any resolve that popped into her head which
sounded even remotely like a faith-based bias. Facts were the only
reliable source on which to base one’s opinions. Tilda was well
aware that her affiliation to England was simply the serendipitous
fact that she had been born there. The founding fathers of America
were well aware that this accident of birthplace in no way secured
infallibility, and the second amendment was included to enable the
people to stage an armed uprising should the government get too big
for their boots and lose sight of righteousness.

Tilda had joined MI6 initially because they had come to
her. But she believed they had probably noticed her antics at
university; that she was not scared to fight for what she thought was
right. However, they may have missed the fact that she would also
fight against them if she thought they were in the wrong. Maybe she
was being naïve, and they were actually well aware of her
potential lack of loyalty. Maybe that’s why she always seemed
to get more than her fair share of ‘lesser’ assignments.
One thing she had never achieved when she believed something was
‘wrong’ was the simple ability to keep her mouth shut.

For the last thirty minutes, she had been driving
towards her favourite bar. The thing she had always liked about
postings to the US was after-work fun. If there was something at
which the Americans excelled, it was enjoying themselves. Every time
she touched down Stateside, she would trail the local bars at her
first opportunity until she found one with good beer, a clientele
with cojones and a
piano, should the urge and alcohol take her.

She parked in the parking lot of Shaw’s bar.
Before she left the car, she leant over to the passenger side and
locked her pistol in the glove compartment.

Tilda walked towards the entrance that was flanked by
two men. They watched her cross the uneven gravel.

“Hey, Tilda!” one of the men called to her.
“What’s happenin’,” he said raising his hand
into the air to high-five.

Tilda slapped his airborne hand with her own.

“You gonna play tonight?” the man asked.

“You gonna stop hitting on me?” Tilda
replied.

The man laughed as Tilda crossed the threshold.

“Hey, Tilda,” the man called after her.

She turned.

“What, Benny?”

“There’s a dude been asking after you.”

“A dude?” questioned Tilda. “What
dude?”

“I dunno. Some English guy. He asked if a pretty
English girl comes here and plays the joanna.”

“Who is he?”

“I dunno,” said the man flicking the end of
his cigarette into the darkness of the parking lot, “I thought
you might know him.”

“What, because he’s English? Do you have any
idea how big England is? You think it’s a little village and we
all know each other?” Tilda joked.

“I dunno,” said the man, then took a swig
from a beer bottle.

Some Americans’ lack of comprehension of anything
outside of the USA’s borders was astonishing. Therefore, the
fact that it has been estimated that more than sixty percent of
Americans do not even own a passport was not hard for Tilda to
believe.

Tilda entered and walked quickly to the bar.

“Hiya, Jerry,” Tilda said to a man opening a
bottle of beer and pouring it into a frosted glass.

“Hey Tilda, your regulars have been asking when
you’d get here.”

“Well, here I am,” she said making jazz
hands.

“Shall I bring a drink over?”

“Thanks, Jerry,” she said as she turned and
fought her way through the crowded room to the piano.

She sat at the upright and lifted the lid covering the
keys.

“I always wanted to learn,” said a bearded
man leaning against the wall.

Tilda looked up. The man was muscular, tall and
striking. His beard was short and well groomed, and his clothes
fastidiously casual.

“Why didn’t you?” Tilda asked.

“Things get in the way, don’t they. We all
start out with such great plans.”

“We do,” responded Tilda with a smile.

“I think I read somewhere that the process of
ageing is slowly discovering what you should have done when you were
young,” said the man with a laugh.

“Are you the one that was looking for me?”

“Looking for you?” the man’s voice
stammered a little.

“I was told that a fellow Englishman was asking
for me.”

“Oh, that, right…yeah.”

“So, what did you want?” Tilda asked.

“Want…no…I just…Look, I’m
just new in town, and I heard that an English girl…played
piano at this bar every Friday…and I thought…”

“…You’d come and check me out?”

The man laughed nervously.

“So, what do you think?” Tilda continued.

The man looked around the bar, then cleared his throat.

“Well, if you play the piano as good as you
look…you should have been a professional musician,” he
said.

Tilda momentarily closed her eyes and shook her head.

“Shit,” said the man, “that was really
cheesy, wasn’t it?” He laughed. “I really can’t
believe I just said that.”

Sherry Goodman emerged from the office of Ted Castle,
the CIA head of operations, with a benign, but stunned look on her
face. She took the lift down two floors, then headed over to an
outside terrace. She held tightly onto the railings and breathed in
deeply and repeatedly.

Sherry reached into her pocket and retrieved her cell
phone. She dialled a number, then placed the phone against her ear.

“Hi, Tina? Yep, I’m all done. You got time
for a coffee?”

Half an hour later, Sherry walked into a diner a few
miles from Langley, found a booth and sat down. Although Tina had
suggested meeting at the coffee shop at headquarters, Sherry had
gently insisted that they met off campus.

The bell on the door jingled, and Sherry looked up. Tina
stood in the doorway scanning the diner. Sherry waved to her.

The waitress turned her attention to Sherry who seemed
irritated at the interruption.

“The same,” Sherry said tersely.

“Cream and sugar?” the waitress asked.

“Sure,” responded Tina.

“Black, no sugar,” added Sherry with
distinct passive-aggression.

The waitress walked away, and Tina stared at her
companion.

“Sweet enough, eh,” she said sarcastically.
Sherry looked blankly at her. “So, how the hell are you, babe?
You were in Europe, right?”

“Yeah, Berlin…Listen Tina, the fucking
British set us up.” Tina’s face tightened. “Their
guy set us up.”

“What guy?”

“A son-of-a-bitch called Joseph Miller; MI6
bastard,” said Sherry. “Just as you start to give the
fuckers a chance…” Sherry’s anger flowed
liberally.

“Sherry?” Tina paused, “were you
involved with this guy?”

“Involved?”
Sherry shook her head. “No, we were on a joint mission
together; to retrieve a NATO artefact from the Russians, but Miller
must have tipped them off or something. They were waiting for us.”

“Are you sure they were tipped off?”

Sherry’s nostrils flared, and her jaw clenched.

“Coffee,” said the waitress appearing beside
the two women, “cream and sugar for you, and black no sugar for
you.” There was no response. “Can I get you anything
else, ladies?”

Tina shook her head from her temporary trance.

“No, thank you. That’s fine for now.”

“Well, if y’need anything, just holla.”

The waitress meandered away, and Tina turned back to
Sherry.

“Are you sure?”

“All my men are dead,” said Sherry, “is
that certain enough?”

“Shit!”

“Yeah…shit!” Sherry echoed. “Four
good men. I tell you Tina, I’m gonna get that bastard.”

“This guy…Miller?”

Sherry had drifted off into a world of her own.

“Yeah, I’m gonna get him,” Sherry
whispered.

“Aren’t there channels that you can go
through?” said Tina. “I mean, if the British set you
up…What did Castle say?”

“Sherry?” Tina said leaning across the table
and closer to her friend, “Castle’s not the only one not
coming clean, is he?”

Sherry smiled and squeezed Tina’s hand.

“If I told you the whole story, I’d have to
kill you.”

Tina snorted a half laugh through her nose.

“Is there anything I can do to help?”

Sherry licked her lips.

“Well honey, I didn’t invite you here for
the coffee,” she said.

Sat. 14th
Sept. 2013 - New Mexico, USA

Tilda awoke in bed. Before she had opened her eyes, the
texture of the sheets, the aromas in the air and the sounds reaching
her ears told her that this bed was not her own. She opened one eye
and turned her head to her left, then to her right. She was alone. A
voice came from the doorway of the bedroom.

“How do you take your tea?”

Kendrick stood in a white towelling dressing gown,
smiling.

“The tea here’s not that good,” said
Tilda lifting her head to look at him and gauge how bad a decision
she had made the night before.

“There’s a spare dressing gown hanging on
the door. I’m just down the corridor in the kitchen.”

Tilda sat up.

“I’ll be right there,” she said
automatically tugging the sheets up to her neck.

Kendrick turned to go, then spun around to face Tilda
again.

“You having regrets?”

“I’ll tell you after I’ve tasted your
PG Tips,” said Tilda.

Kendrick tarried in the doorway as if he were trying to
find a witty and nonchalant remark to smooth his exit. But his mouth
moved soundlessly. He smiled and gently nodded his head.

“Straight down the hallway,” he said
pointing over his shoulder. “You can’t miss it.”

“I’m not sure it’s as big a
navigational challenge as you seem to think,” said Tilda.

“No,” he said with a laugh, “probably
making more of it than necessary…I’m…I guess…to
tell the truth…You see I don’t do this sort of thing all
the time, you know?”

“You suggesting I do?” said Tilda.

“No, god no…I didn’t mean that!”

“I’m joking, for god’s sake.”

Kendrick let out a breathy laugh.

“Course you are. Sorry.”

“You’d better get back to the tea,”
said Tilda. “If it’s stewed, I’m outta here.”

Kendrick disappeared down the hallway, and Tilda got out
of bed and hastily dressed. She stood in the centre of the room
expertly scanning the space. Kendrick’s clothes lay neatly
arranged on a chair. A memory of last night came back to her. She
remembered that in the throws of passion, he had stopped to neatly
fold his clothes and place them where they now sat; looking like a
display in an upmarket fashion store.

She moved quickly to the chair and went through his
pockets. There were some loose dollars in his jeans, but nothing
else. Tilda struggled hard to recall what Kendrick had said he did,
but her memory of last night was that he had been evasive on the
subject. She bent over the chair and placed the clothes carefully so
her search would not be detected. As she straightened up, a voice
came from close behind her.

Kendrick shook his head absently and moved slowly
towards the door. She heard it open, then a loud exchange of voices
followed by frantic crashing in the hallway. Before she could move
from the kitchen, Kendrick appeared at the door accompanied by three
large men. Kendrick’s nose was bleeding. Two of the thick-set
heavies held Kendrick fast; one on each arm, and the third on seeing
Tilda, pointed a large revolver at her.

Instinctively, Tilda reached to her belt for her gun,
but it was not there, it was locked in the glove compartment of her
car.

▽

▼

▽

Chapter 6

Fri. 6th
Sept. 2013 - 1 week earlier- Langley, Virginia, USA

Sherry sipped her coffee and smiled at her colleague.

“So, are you gonna tell me what you want or do I
have to guess?” said Tina.

Sherry carefully placed her cup onto the table.

“I need some information,” Sherry responded
simply.

“Okay, what sort of information?”

“I need to identify a particular type of person,”
explained Sherry.

“I’m not sure I understand,” said Tina
shaking her head.

“Just listen Tina, it’s not rocket science!”

“That’s a shame,” said Tina with a
smile, “I majored in rocket propulsion at MIT.”

“You have a higher security clearance than me. I
need you to access some documents that I can’t get to.”

“Forgive me,” Tina said slowly, “this
doesn’t sound kosher.”

“It’s nothing that bad.”

“Then why not apply for clearance yourself?”

“Tina, I’ve done you countless solids in the
past. I’m just asking one little favour, for pete’s
sake.”

“Listen babe, I want to help you, but you need to
give me a little more. I mean…look…we both know you can
sometimes sail a bit close to the wind…I mean closer than I
feel comfortable with. Well, okay, but if you want me to get
involved…I simply need…”

Sherry cut her off.

“Okay, okay. I’m going to England, and I
want…”

Tina interrupted her.

“…Why are you going to England? Is this
something to do with this…Miller guy?”

“Not really,” Sherry answered shaking her
head.

“Come on, Sherry. You’re just back from
Europe. You think you’ve been fucked over by some MI6 goon. And
now you’re going off to England with a bug up your ass, but the
one thing has nothing to do with the other? Really?”

“I’m not going to England to go after
Miller,” Sherry said emphatically. “I’m going
because I’m being sent.” Tina looked impassively at her
friend. “Castle’s sending me. You’re looking at the
new head of UK operations.”

“Shit! Really?” Tina exclaimed. Sherry
nodded her head. “Well, that’s wonderful news. You’ve
been complaining for years that Castle is holding you back.”

“I know…”

“So now you get to be the big boss. Now you can do
the fucking rather than being fucked.” Sherry remained silent.
“What, Sherry? What is it?”

“It’s all a bit…sudden,” said
Sherry. “I don’t trust Castle. I never have, and I don’t
now. He’s up to something.” Sherry looked Tina hard in
the eye. “Are you going to help me find out what he’s up
to?”

“Hold on,” Tina said thoughtfully, “if
you’ve just been promoted, you’ll have the clearance you
need…surely?”

“Not yet,” said Sherry, “there’s
some fucking bureaucratic procedure. I don’t get top clearance
for a… ‘transitional’…period.”

Tina sighed.

“This is urgent, Tina. Are you gonna help me or
not?”

“Of course I’ll help you, if I can.”

“You just need to access a database for me, and do
a simple search,” said Sherry.

“What am I searching for?”

Sherry leant in to her friend and spoke quietly.

“People that fit the criteria; young, female,
single, troubled and are British Intelligence agents.”

Sat. 14th
Sept. 2013 - New Mexico, USA

Tilda and Kendrick had been moved under gunpoint to the
living room. They sat on the sofa, each with their hands tied
together in front of them. Two of the heavies stood either side of
the one with the gun. He sat on an armchair facing the sofa.

“So Mattherson, are you going to introduce us to
your friend?”

Kendrick wiped the blood from his nose with the back of
his hand, then studied the red stain. He looked at Tilda.

“I met her last night. She has nothing to do with
this.”

“Nothing to do with what?”
asked Tilda.

The gunman turned to her.

“So, who are you?”

“What has Kendrick supposed to have done?”
Tilda continued.

“I asked you a simple question,” said the
gunman.

“So did I, and we both seem to be having
difficulty giving simple answers,” Tilda responded.

He nodded to one of the heavies who moved over to
Kendrick and raised his fist. He struck Kendrick hard in the face.
Kendrick made no noise as his head spun to the side with the
sickening force. He slowly brought his head back to face the gunman.
Blood marked his beard around his lips. He spat red saliva onto the
floor.

The gunman signalled the heavy again. He raised his fist
above Kendrick’s head.

“Wait!” Tilda shouted. “I’m a
piano player. I’m just a fucking piano player. I was doing a
gig last night at Shaw’s Bar. That’s where I met
Kendrick.” She looked hard at the gunman. “Okay?”

The gunman leant forwards.

“So, you’re no one, right?”

Tilda simply shook her head. The gunman signalled the
heavy again, but instead of punching Kendrick he withdrew a pistol
from inside his jacket. He moved over to Tilda, cocked the weapon and
pointed it at her head.

“Whoa,” Kendrick shouted, “she’s
got nothing to do with this.”

“Then it will make no difference if Terrance here
offs her, will it?”

The gunman turned to Terrance to give him the final
order, but found that Tilda had a broad smile on her face.

“What the fuck you smiling about?” he
yelled.

Tilda licked her lips.

“You really have absolutely no idea who I am, do
you?”

“You’re…you’re some pathetic
Limey piano player that Kendrick fucked last night. And you’re
in my way.” He looked at Terrance. “Shoot the bitch.”

Tilda slowly shook her head.

“Who the fuck is she?” wailed Terrance.

“I don’t fucking know,” said the
gunman, his voice wavering a little.

“Then…” said Terrance, “you
shoot the bitch.”

Terrance put his gun away.

“A very wise move, Terrance,” said Tilda
calmly.

“So, who the fuck are you?” asked the gunman
beginning to breathe erratically.

“Suffice it to say that you don’t want to
fuck with me,” Tilda said sitting back and relaxing.

The gunman studied her face carefully.

“Nah, you’re dicking with us,” he said
rising from his chair and pointing his gun at Tilda’s head.

He cocked his revolver. Kendrick quietly sucked on his
teeth. The gunman turned to him.

“You got something to say, Mattherson?”

“Only that you’re about to make the biggest
mistake of your life.”

“What? Who the fuck is
she?” demanded the gunman.

“You want to know who I am, dipshit?” said
Tilda.

“Yeah, I do.”

“Well, pull that trigger, and I guarantee you’ll
find out, big time, within the hour,” said Tilda. The gunman
moved his gaze from one captive to the other repeatedly. “What
are you waiting for, big shot? Come on, you pussy, pull the fucking
trigger! If you’re so sure I’m dicking you around.”
Moments passed. “I haven’t got all day. Pull the fucking
trigger,” Tilda shouted loudly.

The gunman looked at the two heavies, then waved his gun
towards the door.

“We’ll be back, Mattherson. This ain’t
over. You owe, and we’re gonna collect.”

The three men backed out of the room, and a few seconds
later the front door slammed.

Tilda looked hard at Kendrick.

“You got something you want to tell me?” she
asked.

Kendrick exhaled a couple of times, then swallowed hard.

“Hang on a minute,” he said. He rocked on
the sofa, finally producing enough momentum to propel himself to a
standing position. “Wait there.”

He disappeared out of the room for a few moments, then
returned with his hands freed and carrying a large kitchen knife. For
seconds he just stood looking at Tilda. Then he approached her,
reached down and cut the plastic band securing her hands. She rubbed
her wrists.

“How did you know to back me up?” she asked.

“The ‘Doubting Thomas Defence’? Sow
doubt into the aggressor’s mind, then goad them to enhance it?
Military self-defence 101.”

“So, you are ex-military?”

Kendrick didn’t answer.

“What’s more to the point, how do you
know the DT defence?” asked Kendrick.

Tilda simply cocked her head.

“It would appear that we’re both dark
horses. What were they after?”

“A gambling debt,” said Kendrick.

“That must be some debt.”

Kendrick nodded noncommittally.

“Who are you?” Kendrick asked. “Fuck!
Did you pick me up?
Who are you working for?”

As soon as Tilda got into her car, she retrieved her
pistol from the glove compartment. She ejected the clip, checked the
ammunition, then snapped the unit back into the gun. She attached the
holstered gun to her belt, then turned the ignition key to unlock the
steering wheel. She stooped to look out of the car’s window,
and took a last glance at Kendrick’s apartment. Tilda started
the engine and drove away as quickly as she could.

Back at her own apartment, she made herself a cup of tea
and sat at the kitchen table sipping the comforting brew. Had this
simply been a case of ‘wrong place, wrong time’ or was
there something more sinister to it than that? She was an MI6 agent
working with the CIA to protect a Russian defector who was
developing…What was Tzivin developing? Something of obvious
importance. Was Kendrick a Russian agent? Had she been set up?

She rose quickly and went to the window. She kept
herself to the shadows and stealthily peered into the street below.
It was early on a Saturday morning, so the street would be empty. It
should be easy to spot a ‘tail’ should there be one.
Tilda looked in every direction that she could, but nothing moved
four floors below.

She shut her eyes and attempted to control her
breathing, which had become erratic. After a minute or two, she
opened her eyes and rubbed her temples with her fingers. Tilda stared
vacantly at the MacBook Air that rested on the table in front of her.
She glanced through the window again and checked the street, then sat
down to finish her tea.

Tilda reached across the table and pulled her laptop
towards herself, opened the lid, and typed the letters ‘E’
‘M’ ‘P’. The top result was Wikipedia
- Electromagnetic Pulse. She clicked the
link.

An electromagnetic pulse (EMP) is a short burst of
electromagnetic energy. Such a pulse's origination may be a natural
occurrence or man-made.

EMP interference is generally disruptive or damaging
to electronic equipment, and at higher energy levels a powerful EMP
event such as a lightning strike can damage physical objects such as
buildings and aircraft structures.

Weapons have been developed to create the damaging
effects of high-energy EMP. These are typically divided into nuclear
and non-nuclear devices. Such weapons, both real and fictional, have
become known to the public by means of popular culture.

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Chapter 7

Fri. 6th
Sept. 2013 - 1 week earlier-London,
UK

Joseph Miller arrived at MI6 HQ, and went straight up to
the ninth floor. Simmons’ PA looked up from his desk.

“Is he in?” asked Miller.

“Yes, but…”

Miller glided past him and into his mentor’s
office. Simmons was standing in the middle of the room, looking
towards the door as if he knew Miller would be coming through it at
that precise moment. Behind Miller bobbed the disgruntled head of the
PA.

“I’m sorry, Sir, he just barged past me.”

“That’s okay,” said Simmons, and waved
him away. “Good trip?”

Miller stared at him.

“What the hell’s going on?” asked
Miller.

“You were in danger. I wanted to get you back
here.”

“I’m a field agent,” said Miller.
“That’s going to be somewhat dangerous from time to
time.”

“Look, Joseph, you are not aware of everything
that goes on. You must trust me. I know what I’m doing.”

“So this was purely your decision, was it?”
Miller asked.

Simmons’ face darkened.

“Yes,” he replied tersely.

“No, it wasn’t. You don’t behave like
that. This was a snap decision, and that’s not you. You don’t
make snap decisions.”

“Okay, you’re right. It wasn’t totally
my call.”

“All right, so…?”

“As I say, Joseph, you’ll have to trust me.”

“I do trust you,” said Miller, “but
you’re saying someone else was involved. I feel a little uneasy
about that.”